Science Fair (32 page)

P
RMKT’S QUICK, ACCURATE FINGERS
danced over the computer keyboard. His eyes were focused on the screen window displaying the status of a Hughes communications satelite. The satel ite hosted several dozen network relays that fed ground-based cable systems.

Prmkt intercepted a feed being relayed to the satel ite from a location not far from Hubble. His fingers flashed for a few more seconds. The feed was now routed
through
his laptop, then
back
to the satel ite for rebroadcast.

He watched the window on his screen, which now displayed a test pattern. He checked his watch. Any second now…there.

On the screen, the test pattern had been replaced by the image of a man sitting at a large desk, a pair of flags behind him. Prmkt studied the man’s face. He looked tired; Prmkt thought he detected a hint of anxiety in his eyes.

Prmkt nodded. He enjoyed knowing that he was the cause of this man’s anxiety. And soon he would be the cause of more.

Much more.

T
OBY HAD SPENT SEVERAL MINUTES
talking very fast, trying to explain to his parents how he and his felow prisoners had managed to (a) escape from federal custody, and (b) show up in the middle of a robbery with the Wienermobile
and
, by the way, an invisibility device. Toby had then tried to explain why they needed to get to the science fair
right away
, because of Sternabite’s warning that something very bad was going to happen.

His parents were stil stunned from their battle with Vaderian and the Wookiee and stil wearing their Star Wars costumes. They did not want to go anywhere. They were more interested in explaining to Toby why—if he ever got out of prison—he was going to be grounded for the next, approximately, three thousand years.

“But the science fair!” Toby cried. “We have to—”

“If there’s a problem with the science fair,” interrupted Roger, “the police wil handle it.”

“But the police
won’t
handle it!” Toby shouted. “They don’t believe us.
Nobody
believes us. Please, we have to get to the school!”

“No, Toby,” said Roger. “We’re not going to discuss—”

He was interrupted by the sudden blare of the TV set, which Drmtsi had managed to turn on, hoping to find the shopping network. On the screen, in big letters, were the words BLACKOUT PANIC SPREADS. The announcer was saying: “…expecting the president to address the nation at any moment now about the rapidly deteriorating situation as city after city is descending into anarchy. We have stil not received any hard information about what is causing these blackouts and communications disruptions, although as we said moments ago there has been a report—so far unsubstantiated—that whatever is causing this problem is originating from Maryland, possibly in the Washington, D.C., area. But again, we have no…”

“Did you hear that?” said Toby. “It’s got to be the science fair!”

“You don’t know that,” said Fawn. “It could just be a coincidence.”

“No!” said Toby. “Sternabite said the ME kids had col ected al this, like, top secret technology!” Roger and Fawn exchanged a look. Vrsk said something in Krpsht to Drmtsi.

“Dad,” said Toby, “what if I’m right?”

“That would be a first,” said Micah. “Ouch,” he added, when Tamara punched him.

“Real y, Dad,” said Toby, “what if I
am
right, and something terrible happens, and we didn’t try to stop it? Don’t you always tel me that no matter what, you have to try to do the right thing?”

Roger exchanged a look with Fawn—Fawn, who had jumped on the Wookiee to save him; he turned back to Toby, took a breath, and exhaled.

“Al right,” he said.

“We have to hurry!” said Toby, already at the door.

They rode in the Wienermobile, because there wasn’t enough room for al of them in the Harbingers’ car. They took side streets in an effort to avoid the police. Vrsk drove, with Toby in the front passenger seat giving directions; the others were crowded into the back.

“What exactly are we going to do when we get there?” asked Micah.

“We’re going to find the ME kids’ projects,” said Toby.

“And then what?” said Tamara.

“I don’t know,” admitted Toby. “Unplug them?”

“Good thing we have a plan,” said Tamara.

“What’s that smel ?” said Fawn, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s some kind of cheese,” said Toby.

“They keep it in their pants,” added Micah.

“Their
pants
?” said Fawn.

“It is traditional Krpshtskani cheese,” said Vrsk, who’d been fol owing the discussion. “Also is for scaring wolfs. Is cal ed smerk.” Hearing that word, Drmtsi, who was sitting next to Fawn and admiring the way she looked in her Star Wars bikini, reached into his pants and said, “Smerk?”

“No!” said Fawn, recoiling.

“UH-oh,” said Toby.

“What?” said Roger.

Toby pointed at the sideview mirror. “Police!”

They heard the whoop of a siren.

“He wants us to pul over,” said Toby.

WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP

“So,” said Micah, “are we gonna pul over?”

“We’re almost to the school,” said Toby, looking out the window. He turned to Vrsk and said, “Can this hot dog go any faster?”

“We wil find out,” said Vrsk, as he stomped on the accelerator.

S
WINGLE LOOKED AROUND
the crowded gym, seeing anxiety on the faces of the people waiting for the president to speak. Swingle
hated
this situation—hated waiting, hated crowds, hated the feeling of not being in control. He made up his mind. He wasn’t staying here with these losers.

He was getting out.

He slipped away from his lackeys and, keeping his face down, pushed through the crowd to the exit. He strode quickly across the bal field to the TranScent helicopter sitting in the darkness. He yanked open the door, startling the pilot, a young man named Jake Ungerman, who had dreamed his whole life of being a helicopter pilot. He loved his job and took great pride in it.

“Mr. Swingle!” he said. “Is something…”

“We’re leaving,” snapped Swingle, climbing into the chopper. “Now.”

“Uh, sir, we can’t right now. The FAA…”

“I don’t care what the FAA says,” said Swingle. “Start the engine!”

“Sir,” said Ungerman. “I’d lose my license.”

Swingle leaned forward and grabbed Ungerman’s shirt. “You listen to me, kid,” he said. “I can get you your license back if you lose it. But if you don’t take off right now, I wil make sure you lose it
forever
. You’l never fly again. You won’t be al owed to fly a
kite
. Do you understand me?” Ungerman nodded glumly.

“Good,” said Swingle. “Then start the engine.”

Ungerman began flipping switches. “What about your staff?” he asked.

“Forget them,” said Swingle. “Go.”

The big rotor began to turn. Swingle buckled himself into his seat. He looked out the window toward the gym, which was ful of scared people worrying about what was going to happen, waiting to be told what to do.
Bunch of sheep
, Swingle thought. He was very pleased with the way he’d handled the situation. He had
taken charge
. That’s why, he, Lance Swingle, was a winner. As the rotors spun faster, he took one last look out the window at the school and the gym ful of losers. He smiled a thin, self-satisfied smile, the smile of a man in control of his own destiny.

If he had looked out the window on the other side, he would have seen an indication that his destiny was not, after al , entirely in his own hands: a four-ton frankfurter, coming fast.

“Y
OU’RE GOING OFF THE ROAD!”
shouted Toby.

“I KNOW THIS!” answered Vrsk.

The hurtling Wienermobile, fol owed by the whooping police car, had barely made the turn into the Hubble Middle School driveway. The giant hot dog fishtailed wildly as Vrsk fought to regain control. He did not total y succeed. The driveway curved gently left, but the Wienermobile kept going straight, lurching into the air as the wheels hit the curb. The impact shoved the terrified occupants forward, and Vrsk’s foot slammed down hard on the accelerator. The Wienermobile shot forward onto the bal field.

WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP

The police car vaulted the curb right behind them. Directly ahead was the chain-link fencing of the basebal backstop.

“STOP STOP STOP STOP!” shouted Toby, whose voice was joined by a chorus of desperate shouts and screams from the people in the back of the Wienermobile. None of this had any effect on Vrsk, who was total y focused on trying to get the steering under control, and thus had pretty much forgotten about his right foot, which remained on the accelerator as the Wienermobile crashed into and through the backstop, bouncing wildly as it hurtled over fencing and fence post. The police car hit the fal en backstop next and lost control, spinning in a ful circle, then another, then rol ing over several times before ending up on its side, stil whooping.

Meanwhile the Wienermobile hit the pitcher’s mound at a good sixty miles per hour. The sudden impact sent the occupants sprawling, including Vrsk, who now lost al control. Toby was the first to get his head up and see, directly ahead, a helicopter.

A HELICOPTER?!?

“LOOK OUT!” shouted Toby, but at that point even if Vrsk had the skil s of a NASCAR driver—which he definitely did not—he could not have prevented the col ision. As the occupants screamed and covered their faces, the Wienermobile slammed into the back of the TranScent helicopter. The entire tail section was sheared off cleanly, and it tumbled wildly toward first base, with the tail rotor stil spinning. The cockpit and cabin rol ed over several times and wound up at third base.

Meanwhile, the Wienermobile hurtled into the outfield, where Vrsk was final y able to slam on the brakes and bring the vehicle to a fishtailing stop. The windshield was shattered; the front end was badly smashed. Smoke poured from the engine and bil owed around the Wienermobile, which looked like a bratwurst left on the gril too long.

Toby felt himself for injuries; he seemed to be okay. He looked at Vrsk, who was stil gripping the wheel, staring ahead, breathing hard. A medley of groans sounded in the backseat as Micah, Tamara, Drmtsi, and Toby’s parents disentangled their limbs and sat up, blinking.

“Wel ,” said Toby. “We’re here.”